“Can I ask a question?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“If the indictment has been issued, how can it be stopped? Why are we talking?”

“It’s under seal, by court order,” Ginyard said. “According to Detective Wright, the prosecutor has a deal for you, one that the victim’s lawyer cooked up, one that will allow you to walk away from this mess. You play ball, and the indictment against you will never see the light of day.”

“I’m still confused. Maybe I should call my father.”

“That’s up to you, but if you’re smart, you’ll wait until you chat with Detective Wright.”

“You guys didn’t advise me of my Miranda rights.”

“This is not an interrogation,” Plant finally said. “It’s not an investigation.” Then he reached into the smoked-tuna basket and pulled out a greasy fry.

“What the hell is it?”

“A meeting.”

Ginyard cleared his throat, leaned back a few inches, and proceeded. “It’s a state crime, Kyle, we all know that. Normally we wouldn’t be involved, but since you’re here in Connecticut and the indictment is in Pennsylvania, the boys in Pittsburgh asked us to help arrange the next meeting. After that, we’ll step aside.”

“I’m still confused.”

“Come on. Bright legal mind like you. Surely you’re not that thick.”

There was a long pause as all three considered the next move. Plant chomped on his second fry, but his eyes never left Kyle.

Ginyard took a sip of coffee, frowned at the taste, and continued staring. The pinball machines were silent. The deli was empty except for the four FBI agents, a bartender absorbed in the game, and Kyle.

Finally, Kyle leaned forward on his elbows, and with the recorder just inches away he said, “There was no rape, no crime. I did nothing wrong.”

“Fine, talk to Wright.”

“And where is he?”

“At ten o’clock, he’ll be at the Holiday Inn on Saw Mill Road, room 222.”